


Bleak Midwinter

by Muffinworry



Category: Shades of Magic - V. E. Schwab
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-06 03:03:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12808212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muffinworry/pseuds/Muffinworry
Summary: Hope looks like a broken stone





	Bleak Midwinter

**Author's Note:**

> A short fic about White London, and the rise and fall of the Dane Twins

The first time she kills a man, she’s eight. Her brother comes flying down the alley toward her, their target following on his heels. The man looked harmless, a fat purse dangling just within reach. She’d fallen right in front of him, making sure to skin her knee, and burst into noisy tears. As he cursed and stepped around her, Athos had darted up neatly behind him.

Not fast enough, however, and now the man is shouting and reaching out a hand to grab her brother and –

\- Astrid, tears on her face, one hand on her bleeding knee, screams in rage, and a heavy stone comes loose from the crumbling wall overhead. The man crumples to the ground.

They don’t, in the end, get to keep the purse. The older children kick them away, and the twins find their usual doorway to sleep in. Athos wraps their blanket around them and kisses her cheek while Astrid stares at her hands.

By the next night, they have a roof and a real bed.

By the next month, they have followers.

***

They’re sixteen, and they play the game for higher stakes now. It’s Astrid’s turn tonight, and she makes sure to hunch over, downcast, walking just a little too slowly. She keeps her eyes on her bare feet, and lets her dress slip down one thin shoulder.

The two men who follow her into the alley are careful not to make a sound.

They reach for her at the same time.

They scream.

She sorts through their pockets while Athos cleans his knife, and helps her drain their blood into the pail he’s brought. Enough life in it to bind a little more magic, to hold it tight and force it to obey.

Blood means survival, means thrills, means _power_.

The bodies they leave for the local desperates, who emerge from the shadows to bow and scrape. The twins are careful to keep their powers largely hidden, using just enough magic to hold off starvation, practicing in secret with the books that Athos steals and puzzles out. They don’t want to come to the attention of the palace. Not yet. They keep to the filthiest, poorest streets, cultivating their vulnerable appearance, preying on anyone who tries to take advantage of them. In London, there are always takers.

When she’s crowned, she’ll vow to never wear a dress again.

Astrid Dane licks blood off the back of her hand, then straightens up to her full height and smiles at her brother.

***

They’re nineteen when the old king dies. The streets erupt into chaos the way they usually do, and the twins watch, and wait. A handful of leaders emerge. None of them lasts long. 

And then there’s the Antari, the one who’s usually found standing behind the throne. They watch him carefully as he begins to manoeuver. He takes control of the western city, street by street. Methodical. Strong. Not quick, though; if anything he’s too cautious.

He’s powerful, probably stronger than they are, but he’s disliked. Too many people remember how the last king fell, faded and weak like the others before him. Too many remember how their city was left to starve because of the black-eyed ones. And Holland doesn’t smile, and doesn’t make promises, and he doesn’t reward his own followers.

And the twins are nineteen (still unfaded), white-blonde and gilded with magic. They laugh and pour wine for their friends, and if they don’t drink it themselves, well, nobody notices. More and more people join them.

They’re beautiful.

Such things still matter, even in a dying city.

They move fast then, seizing a large swath of territory, locking down their control with brutal efficiency. And then they execute their plan.

Athos will be the bait this time. They stage a public fight, split their followers into two factions. Sacrifice four of their lieutenants. The streets grow slick with blood.

Athos goes to Holland and kneels. Promises to bring him Astrid’s head, in exchange for clemency and a place advising him when he’s king. Promises him everything.

Treachery is always so easy to believe.

Later, Astrid will watch as her brother heats a brand in the fire, and she’ll smile at the cursing Antari, and ask him if he really thought that Athos was such a poor brother as that.

***

The city goes wild for them.

Starved for hope, the mob lets itself believe that maybe this time, the new rulers will be different. People line the streets to see them. Hold up children for them to bless. The castle opens for them, a vast and frozen fortress where the last dregs of magic are jealously guarded.

The first assassination attempt occurs one month after they take power.

Retaliation is swift and brutal. The ringleaders are executed, in spectacularly messy fashion. The street they came from burns to the ground, and the twins stand on the battlements, watching the chaos far below. They need to make a decision. Astrid looks at her brother, her eyes blazing, and orders the guards to seal in the burning district. The knife had grazed his shoulder.

They begin to have their food tasted.

And then one day a letter arrives, from another London. Holland reads it out to them, his voice expressionless. This other king, Maxim, welcomes them to a royal correspondence. Offers them _neighbourly advice_ , the benefit of his _many years on the throne_. Astrid’s lip curls as she listens. She dictates a curt reply and signs it _Astrid, Queen of London, First of Her Name_. It’s a small joke at the expense of this weak, friendly, hand-me-down king. A ruler who inherited his throne? Contemptible.

There are no dynasties in her London.

Astrid is twenty-two, and wonders if she’ll see twenty-three.

***

A pair of blank-eyed maids are brushing Astrid’s silvery hair when her brother knocks and enters. He waves them away and sits on the edge of a chair, and takes her hand. She frowns at the dark veins on his temple. The white throne - _thrones_ – has a high price. The magic spent to hold it is never enough, and it takes its price in their slowly fading bodies, their poisoned blood. They knew this, of course, when they claimed it. The average reign in the city is a little under two years.

They’ve held it for seven.

The people have grown sullen. They know now that no miracles are coming, but they’re too scared to move against the palace. For now. Various inventive cruelties have bought the twins some time, but the magic is eating them from the inside out.

Every time a letter arrives from the pleasant, naïve, _concerned_ other London, Astrid tears it to pieces with hands that are always cold now.

Athos smiles and drops something in her palm. She raises her eyebrows. Feels her numb fingers start to warm at the touch of fresh magic.

Hope looks like a broken stone.

***

The other London is rich beyond belief. Spoiled. _Soft_. The palace is low-ceilinged and stiflingly warm, and full of scents that make her queasy. The people are too loud, the servants sing and jostle in the hallways. Guards joke and whistle and gossip. The stink of magic is dizzying.

She can’t wait to claim it. Enough chaos here, and Athos will be able to open a door right into the heart of this palace. She should be able to cause some remarkable distractions.

She glances over at the red-haired Antari, still unconscious on his bed.

Astrid looks in the mirror, and a prince’s face smiles back at her.

***

She snaps her back to her own body too early; something is wrong.

A moment later, she comes flying down the stairs, wearing someone else’s face. Sees her brother’s body and forces herself to keep her voice steady and throw her numb arms around his murderer.

She can be the decoy this time, their plan can still work, they’ve always won like this. She’ll take the stone and Athos will get up again, he has to, and they’ll fight side by side and—

_– the pain is searing –_

Astrid Dane, too shocked for tears, one hand on her bleeding midriff, screams in rage and no sound comes out.  


**Author's Note:**

> In ADSOM, it says that White London split into three warring factions; Astrid's, Athos's, and Holland's. This was written before ACOL, where the events around Holland, Vortalis, and the fight for the throne are somewhat different.


End file.
